Our Little Patch of Heaven
by ScintillatingTart
Summary: The door was green, kind of a hunter green, faded and peeling around the edges; a battered remnant of a former life, much like Ruth herself. (Harry/Ruth, M rating, season 10 spoilers)
1. A Faded Green Door

I very clearly and concisely do not own Spooks/MI-5. I just am one of those obsessed Netflix watchers who has had a moment of, "HOLY CRAP OMG WHAT? Why did I not watch this much earlier?" and began watching and dragging everyone down with me. This is my first fic in this 'verse, so please be kind and rewind, don't crucify me for getting it wrong (if I do, as a stupid nattering American). I've stayed with the Americanized spelling and punctuation, as it's what I know, and again, be patient. This story carries an M rating for language and adult situations (including sex, flashbacks, violence, etc.), so please don't read if this offends you in any way, shape, or form.

Our Little Piece of Heaven  
by Scintillating Tart  
July 2014 -

One:  
A Faded Green Door

There was a moment of disconnect, of panic, when the cold was displaced by a sense of warmth and the sun shone down on her. She looked around, no longer on a battered, abandoned base on the coast in the middle of nowhere, but found herself to be standing in a tiny patch of sunshine just outside the door of the house in Suffolk that she was going to buy.

The door was green, kind of a hunter green, faded and peeling around the edges; a battered remnant of a former life, much like Ruth herself. Maybe that's why she liked it so much. Maybe that's why she could never have given up the name Evershed completely – because it was a piece of her that was battered and fading in the sunlight and the salty sea air. It was a reminder of the pieces of who she was and how far she had come.

But how far had she come, then? Farther than she'd thought, obviously. Everything here was shiny and new, bright and happy, except that door. It was tangible, this reminder that she was fallible like everyone else. That she had broken in her last task. She was the faded door, battered and weathered, her heart broken and bleeding – and the truth would not set her free.

Somehow, she knew she was dead. She had to be. But this couldn't be heaven – it had to be a waystation along the way. She couldn't be so lucky as to find her way here, the only place she'd ever actually found any peace in her life. The only place she would have given her everything to have.

She hesitated before the green door, knowing that if she went inside, it might change everything. Who knew what lay beyond? She was dead, and god knew that she had seen and performed such acts to be judged for – things that no amount of church-going and choir-singing could atone for. Which is why in the last year, she had given them up for Lent; and then some. Her prayers were for god's ears alone, a whisper of desperation to atone for her wicked deeds. It was the only way she might forgive herself, let alone be forgiven.

Her hand found the doorknob and she opened the door, breathing deeply of the musty air inside – it was like this house had been waiting for her, waiting for the point in her life that this made sense. In life, it hadn't been musty; it had had a bright, fresh smell of hydrangea and roses, sea air and softness. But in death, it was musty and dank; much like Ruth's own soul had become. It hurt to know that, in the end, she had sacrificed everything and had come away with nothing to show for it. Nothing but this.

She pushed forward, past the shuttered sitting room and into the kitchen, determined that if she had to face her devils, at least she could have a proper cuppa to fortify herself. The thought of going upstairs crossed her mind, but she couldn't do it. Not now. Not without him.

Harry Pearce: her downfall, even in death.

She stepped through into the kitchen, somehow unsurprised to see Ros sitting at the table with a pot of tea on the ready. It should have been a shock, but it wasn't. Death apparently played by different rules. "Ros," Ruth greeted quietly.

Ros looked up and smiled, but it didn't quite meet her eyes. "Hello, Ruth," she said softly, her voice smoothed by time in this place, by contemplation of a life lived and wrongs righted – or maybe it was just Ruth's imagination running away with her. After all, they were in the afterlife. Anything was possible, and god knew Ros was just as wicked and evil of a creature as Ruth had been. "So, this is your little patch of heaven? Mine is a stupid little flat in Bristol – I spent the happiest days of my life there. They razed the building when I was twelve, not that it matters." She poured a cup of tea for the both of them.

"I never thought it would come to this," Ruth said quietly. "I thought… I thought that we'd be happy. That some good would come out of everything we'd done."

"We've saved thousands of people," Ros said softly. "Thousands of people walk through their lives, ignorant of just how they managed to be alive in the first place. We played god and won them some time, Ruth."

"But at what cost?" Ruth challenged. "Our own lives?" She looked down, expecting to see a gaping wound and a patch of blood, but there was nothing. "I guess scars don't exist here."

Ros smiled ruefully. "Only the mental ones," she said. "I can tell you died in horrible confliction by the state of this house. And only you can change it." There was a long pause, and she added, "Starting with that god awful door."

Ruth glared at her for a moment, then relaxed and reached for the cup of tea. "If this place is heaven, why are we here?" she asked. "We've done enough to earn a ticket straight to hell."

"Because it's not heaven like you think heaven will be," Ros said, brushing her blonde wispy bangs back. "You think heaven is cherubs and angels and floating in the sky. But really, heaven is peace. Heaven is forgiveness and the peace that comes from it. You have to forgive yourself."

Ruth smiled, the gesture rueful and deprecating at the same time. "I cannot forgive myself for many of the things I've done, Ros – how could you?" she asked.

Ros chuckled. "I haven't yet. But my sins are many and yours, I'm sure, are much fewer."

Ruth shook her head and took a sip of her tea. It was perfect: not too hot, not too cold, not to milky or sweet or anything. It was perfect. Of course heaven would have absurdly perfect tea to go along with her litany of self-abuse. "I don't know about that, Ros – I really don't," she murmured. "I'm not the person you think I am. I'm not just mousy Ruth pining away for Harry Pearce in the corner. I've done things. Bad things. Things that I'm not sure I can forgive myself for."

Ros reached across the table and held Ruth's hand. "Tell me," she said softly. "Tell me your darkest secret, Ruth. It's the only way to set things right."

The sunshine was gone in a flash, replaced with rain. Ruth felt overwhelming sadness begin to wash over her as she contemplated her life, and she settled on the one thing she could never have shared with Ros in life. She took a deep breath and licked her lips. "My name isn't Ruth Evershed. At least not originally. I was born Catherine Newcombe and… and… Harry and I are secrets wrapped in lies wrapped in half-truths, Ros." Her hand clenched around the mug – a pretty little mug that had long since been destroyed, splintered into bits and swept into the rubbish.

Ros said, "I never thought you were mousy, Ruth," encouraging her to continue.

The story tumbled out, how Catherine had been married to a burly Irishman straight out of university – an Irishman with a temper and a love of bombs. He'd been an amazing fit in the NRA, and beating his wife senseless was just part of the fun. She had been mousy at the time, quietly spoken and terrified of invoking his wrath, scared that anything she would have done could have set him off.

And then James Mitchell had moved in across the hall of their squalid little flat and he was everything that Sean O'Connell was not – a gentleman, a sweet man, who would help her carry up her shopping bags, who would bring her sweets and small trinkets.

Sean found Catherine with James' copy of Ulysses one night – a book that he'd taken from her and burned, citing that women didn't need to fill their minds with nonsense when all that they were good for was cooking, cleaning, and fucking – and he beat her to a bloody pulp. Barely able to see out of her left eye, she had taken to the stairs, trying to escape, only to fall headlong down the flight. How long she'd been unconscious was up for debate, but James was at her side in the hospital, not Sean. Sean was off god knows where making god knew what plans to blow something up and kill people – but the damage had already been done. He had murdered his own child in his cold blooded rampage.

Nothing was the same after that. When she'd recovered enough, James took her home and tucked her away. Sean knew that to touch her again was to invite certain death – James had made that perfectly clear when he'd brought her back, going so far as to provoke Sean's temper and wave a gun in his face.

And Catherine found herself going across the hallway and confessing all kinds of things like overhearing Sean and his friends' plans. She couldn't go to the police – she knew that they would take her into custody, too, and she had nothing to do with it. Any of it. But James was safe, and he didn't judge her: he just protected her. And loved her.

My god, did he love her. In every possible way and position and – and she wasn't even slightly ashamed of fucking a man that wasn't her husband. Her husband had forfeited the right to touch her ever again. Her afternoons with James were full of passion and desire, and he made her feel like a beautiful woman who meant something to him.

Sean came home one night, took one look at her kiss-swollen lips, and grabbed her by the throat, squeezing until she couldn't fight him, couldn't breathe, couldn't move. She kicked and flailed, desperate to breathe, and the door flew open. Seven men came in, led off by James, their guns drawn and ready to fire. He released her, throwing her at James, and attempted to get away. The hail of bullets was her worst nightmare for years – choking for air, knowing that she was so close to death, the sound of gunfire pounding around her, tearing up the night.

His real name wasn't James and he wasn't in love with her. His name was Harry Pearce, he worked for MI-5, and he could hide her away from the NRA. She didn't question him, just took the name of her dead sister – Ruth – and her mother's maiden name – Overshed – and became someone else altogether. He offered her a job as an analyst in his division: Section D. She took it and never looked back.

Ruth rubbed her temples and looked up at Ros. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. For lying. For… being someone I'm not. But I can't go back."

Ros reached out and took her hand. "Look at the window, Ruth," she whispered. "The sun is back."

* * *

Did you need to sleep in heaven? Ruth asked herself, suddenly exhausted. She'd been alone a long time with her thoughts after Ros had left, and those thoughts were not stellar. Her life was a parade of mistakes and lost chances. Why would Harry want her after all of that? Why?

She'd broken them at the beginning, crippled them in a way that could never be repaired. And yet, despite all of her sins, this was the only one that meant something. A betrayal so stark she could never forgive herself, let alone hope that he would forgive her.

Ruth collapsed onto the divan and closed her eyes, wishing that the afterlife was rainbows and kittens and the happiness she'd never gotten in life, instead of this dismal hell of her own making.

END PART ONE


	2. The Cracked Garden Window

Two:  
The Cracked Garden Window

It was a struggle, cleaning for guests when you didn't know when they would be coming. Ruth scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to banish the gloom and the must and the dank dampness, only succeeding in exhausting herself and making things that much worse.

Jo and Ros came over for tea, sweet and slyly sarcastic as they had always been, teasing her about how no matter how hard she tried, it was only getting worse around the place. Ruth responded with a pointed glare and a rude gesture. And a pot of tea.

"It's fun to check in on the living once in a while," Jo commented. "I like to watch my ex-chaps and see how they're getting on. Unfortunately, I did have a moment where I happened to be looking at one and he got hit by a lorry in the middle of the high street." She giggled. "And then here he was."

Ruth had to smile a little at that. "Sounds invasive," she said softly. "Looking in on people, I mean. Even being a spy, there have to be some lines I can't cross."

Ros smiled. "Don't you want to see Harry?"

Ruth hesitated, then shook her head. "It would hurt too much," she whispered. "I want to be with him, not here. We were meant to be together, sod it, not separated and me dead and gone." She fidgeted and nibbled on the cuticle of her thumb. "Bloody hell."

"What?" Jo said.

"The garden window has a big bloody crack in the glass," Ruth said. "I just noticed it, sitting here –"

Jo's expression softened. "Ruth, why don't you go look out?" she suggested gently.

"No," Ruth protested, getting up and sweeping up the mugs, teapot, and little spongecakes that had taken forever to make and were less than edible. "I can't even make a bloody good tea – I break everything I bloody touch. Why on earth would I want to hurt more than I am right now? I got myself killed, for god's sake, or I'd be out there with Harry, stumbling around and trying to make this work. After so long, after all of this – He's never going to come here and look for me. Never." She gestured to herself. "Why would he want this when he could have any number of the hot bitches he's banged over the years?"

"Jealous?" Jo asked with a smirk.

Ruth stared her down. "No."

"Are you scared?"

She blinked, then backed down. "Yes."

"Don't be," Ros said. "We can stay or we can go, but that window, Ruth – that window you need to look through."

Ruth crossed her arms defensively across her chest and scowled, then marched over and looked through. The crack in the glass splintered her view, but she could clearly see him. Her heart beat faster, harder, and she pressed her palm against the glass.

"Who is he?" Jo asked.

"Malcolm's nephew," Ruth said quietly. "Graham." Her voice dropped to barely there. "My son." The two words hung suspended in the air like dew on the gossamer threads of a spider web. She'd never said them aloud, not ever, not even when he was born. Because he wasn't hers, not really. Gillian and Jack had raised him and loved him and given him everything. And she was just Auntie Ruth, who came to every concert and came for Christmas dinner and gave him the best presents on his birthday.

Graham was a prize cellist, playing with the Royal Philharmonic, and he had grown into the face that was so similar to his father's. He had a girlfriend and a daughter, who Auntie Ruth had always loved to spoil rotten. And now… now, she could never apologize to him.

The crack splintered and she pulled away, looking at her hand, then the window. The glass had splintered and fragmented around her hand, creating a spider's web of beauty and pain. She saw him reflected a thousand times over, as if once was not enough, and her heart broke.

Jo's hands fell on her shoulders and she whispered, "Did Harry know?"

"No," Ruth said sharply. "I never told him. He was in Syria on an op for nearly a year. It was easy enough to hide." She pulled away and crossed her arms over her chest again. "I was living with Malcolm at the time – I guess we were dating, but we never slept together. We were good housemates. Malcolm and me, we were always good mates." She felt the tears slipping down her cheeks, and whispered, "I told him if I died – if I really and truly died – he should tell Graham and Harry the truth. That if he was a good mate, my best mate, he'd do that for me. And just once, Graham would call me mum instead of Auntie Ruth." She swiped away the tears with her hands and exhaled weakly.

"Why did you give him up?" Ros asked. The question was cold, clinical, but the tone was warm and soft.

"Because," Ruth said. "Because I was a spook and an imposter and because no one who makes a life out of deceiving others should ever be allowed to hurt a child like that." She fidgeted, picking at her nails, click-clack, clickity-clack. "Because I saw what Elena and Jane did to Harry, using their children as weapons against him, and I swore I would never hurt him like that. Even if he didn't love me that way."

Skin against skin, hard flesh pressing hotly against softness, hot, deep, wet kisses that left them both stunned and desperate for more –

Ruth choked back the memories and lashed out, smashing the cracked glass with her fist with a primal noise of fury, agony, and guilt. Always the guilt. She had broken everything that she'd ever touched, every relationship she'd ever had. She'd hurt the ones she'd loved the most of anyone in the world and now she was stuck in some kind of amusement park hell where she was forced to relive her darkest past, as if it was not dead and gone.

Ros put her arm around Ruth and whispered, "Harry would understand, I think. And he always loved you that way, Ruth. Always."

Ruth exhaled and snapped, "No, he loved the idea of us, but when it came to execution, he was piss poor at it. And so was I. We fucked – a lot – and we had a kid. That's what we had then, okay? Graham has had a good life with Gillian and Jack and I'd not hurt him ever by telling him I was his birth mum. I've been there for him all his life, and I can't – I can't –"

Ros gently grasped Ruth's shoulders and forced her to look out the window where the glass had been. Harry was sitting on a bench in some park somewhere, staring out into nothing and nowhere, a man broken and bleeding from an invisible wound.

"Harry has always loved you," Ros repeated. "Always. You're his Ruth."

Ruth reached through the window and tried to stroke his cheek. He glanced up, like he'd felt something, but she'd already pulled away. "I love you," she whispered. "Don't forget me, Harry. Don't… don't ever forget me."

She gave herself up in that moment, what was left of her resisting. The glass pane glinted in the sunlight, unbroken and whole again. She blinked and looked around, the gloom and muck beginning to subside. She had to get everything ready.

End part two


	3. A Bed With Rumpled Sheets

Three:  
A Bed With Rumpled Sheets

Getting her house in order took longer than Ruth honestly thought was possible. But she was used to instant compliance and no backtalk, and sometimes… sometimes she could talk logic bombs around the best of them and come out on the other side with new scars. What right had she to be in heaven – her little patch of it – when she had killed so many people, or had ordered them to be done, anyway? What right at all did she have to claim this?

She sat there, in the kitchen, looking out the window from some distance away, half convinced that if she looked closer, something evil might stare back at her from her own face. She licked her lips and looked down into her cuppa, wondering why every bloody cup of tea in heaven had to be perfect. Just once, she wanted one that was overbrewed or dodgy, but no – perfect to the last drop, and then again in the next pot.

Bloody perfect tea.

She rose to her feet and started toward the stairs. She'd purposefully been avoiding going upstairs, knowing that if she had the balls to go up there, she would be confronting the worst possible bits of herself – the ones that she'd carefully, deliberately ignored and tucked away for years and years. The petty, selfish bits that were nurtured by Harry's so-called love. She was his Ruth, a woman of his own making. Catherine was long-gone, replaced by a woman that had been taught through hardship just how important it was to hold onto everything you held dear. A woman that had given away her son to prevent him from being used as an asset on any side. A woman that would kill if it meant protecting the one person who loved the last remnants of the woman she had been. She was a woman that didn't mess about when it came to any of it.

The wallpaper was peeling around the edges of the walls of the corridor, the lovely white and natural hues giving way to some mauve and green monstrosity beneath – and she bit her lip, finally realizing that this house, all of it, was hers and hers alone. It was made up of the parts of her she couldn't keep ignoring anymore. The lovely patterns of her sweet, mousy soul belied utter chaos beneath. She took a deep breath and pushed forward, past the spare bedroom – the crap room – that she'd planned to be Harry's office. It scared her, that room. All of the leftover bits and baubles and something that bespoke of madness lurked in there. She knew she'd have to confront it sometime, but today was not that day.

She stepped into the master bedroom and inhaled deeply, protectively wrapping her arms about herself. The bed was not as big as his was, nor was it as comfortable – she could tell just by looking. It was a shadow of them, this bed; a piece of revelry gone wrong. A very practical bed frame – wooden, probably bloody Ikea (and who ever would think of Sir Harry Pearce shopping at a bloody Ikea?) – and a lumpy old mattress (probably with a bloody skeleton hidden in the box springs), and soft linens stained with use. She closed her eyes and whispered, "No, not like this. It should never be like this for us. Not anymore."

It was the old bed, the one from the flat Catherine had shared with Sean. The one where she'd first shyly, then increasingly wantonly had led James to bed. It wasn't fair that she should have to face this – ever since she'd escaped that house, she'd tried to forget it.

Her parents had called her Cat, and James had picked it up, whispering in her ear that she was his hellcat and his alone. Sometimes, when they met in public and had to pretend to be attracted to one another, he would smile that crookedly devious grin and call her his cat, then lean in and ask if pussy wanted a good stroking. She would blush and pretend that he was playing it up, but god knew all she wanted was him. Harry was very good at picking strings to pluck to reduce her to a quivering raw nerve of lust and longing – and she loved it, every moment of it. Always had done.

She played shy and subservient in the office, only because she'd learned the hard way that being pushy and overbearing on Harry's behest only worked so many times before it backfired. But here, here, she was the queen and always had been. This was her world, dark and twisted beneath the duvet and between the sheets, hot and cold, desperate with need.

This was where she'd lost herself for good. Forever. To a man who had no idea what to do with her once he had her in his thrall.

His affairs were the stuff of legend. Hers were off the books, but maybe equally legendary. There had been a time after Graham was born and she was still something akin to beautiful, before the stress lines had taken over her face, before bits began to sag and she had looked like she wasn't trying so hard, when Harry had asked her to use her body as an asset for him. She'd taken politicians and diplomats in hotels, extracting information easily because she'd learned from the best – she'd learned everything from Harry. He'd reveled in teaching her ways to disarm her prey without raising so much as an eyebrow; they'd spent so many hours in bed training that she was surprised she didn't fall pregnant again. And she'd never really believed that she was anything to him but a hot cunt and a crude fuck. Not until he'd whispered, with all the direst of possession, "My hellcat," against her inner thigh. "Mine."

Ruth slipped into the bed and pulled the covers up around her, inhaling deeply the scent of musk and sweat, of that thing that was just Harry, and the thing that was just her, mingled together on a level so intimate that it made her blush even remembering how passionate they had been in the beginning. Maybe it had all been an act, a way to turn her, but it always burned true and bright in her memory. His cologne lingered in the air, something that hadn't changed once in all the time that she'd known him. It was spicy and masculine, redolent of sandalwood, bay rum, myrrh, vetiver and musk, and it had a very primal effect on her – if she believed in anything, she believed that he'd never changed it for the same reason she'd never strayed from her soft vanilla musks. It was an indelible, undeniable way to retain their connection, no matter what the price.

Of all the times he'd undressed her, worshipped at her altar, she remembered the first time the most vividly; it had been raining, damn near downpouring, and he'd met her in the lobby to carry her shopping up to the flat. She looked like a drowned rat, but it didn't keep that look of pure desire and lust from sparkling in his eyes. An impulsive, gentle kiss on the lips and a whispered, "Thank you," suddenly led to another kiss, and another, each more intimate and delicious than the last.

He knew how to touch her in a way that no one else did, her Harry. Despite all of the affairs, all of the darkness and pain, she still thought of him as hers. Maybe he always had been, but she'd been too blinded by jealousy to see it. Maybe she was just a stupid old bint who should have reminded him long before that she wasn't just an asset to be squandered.

She undressed and kicked her clothes out from under the covers, curling into a naked ball in the middle of the bed, wanting things she knew she couldn't have again. The trust that James had made her feel deep in her belly even as they created a new life together. The impulsive passion that Harry had harnessed in her and used like a weapon with deadly precision.

Ruth could sleep with anyone – man or woman – and turn them. It was a special gift, one that she'd practiced with Harry until she'd curled up inside his heart and taken up some kind of residence there. But what if that's not what she'd intended? She wanted him of his own free will, not out of some desperate middle aged clinging to all of the things they thought they'd known before – love, lust, and a desire so strong that it burned like an out of control bonfire, summoning primal spirits to them.

She'd only ever wanted him to love her in return. Not even with the same desperate kind of affection that she had welling up inside her, just…

Just love her.

The tears that soaked her pillow were for everything they'd had and lost. Everything that they'd twisted from beautiful to dark and menacing. When had it become so complicated? When had they become so focused on the job that they did not realize the pain that they had put each other through?

Her body tingled with desperation, wanting him and only him. But all she had were memories and herself. She could imagine him in her mind's eye, so much younger and fitter, touching her wet skin for the first time as he helped her out of her soaked dress and jumper, revealing all of the healing bruises and cuts from Sean's abuse. She remembered vividly how he'd kissed each one and touched her with such gentleness, like he thought she would break if he gave in.

It had been a turning point – no going back, for either of them.

Ruth's lips parted, a light breath escaping as she touched herself, wishing it was Harry running his hands down her body. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and she whimpered, biting her lip. He'd taught her the value of being quiet in the throes of passion – how sometimes silence conveyed more import than moans and dirty talk. How intimate it became if the partners were silent, intently focused on each other as they came together. The last time they'd been together, it had been that way. Quick, urgent, silent, aside from a rumbling whisper of, "I love you, hellcat," in the tangle of her hair as they'd lain together in an altogether too expensive hotel room after they'd saved the world yet again. That had only been a few days before her death.

Her climax felt wrong, so wrong, without him there. Without his fingers deep inside her – without his hardness filling her to overflow. She'd become so used to it by now that anything else was just torture and self-pity. It wasn't the sex, not really. It was the thought of losing him to someone else because she was so stupid as to believe that he could love her despite her faults. Maybe in spite of them, even. She knew better than anyone of her imperfections and she knew better than to believe that someone could overcome them and love her so much in truth.

And that was the problem, wasn't it?

He had always loved her, his Ruth. His hellcat. He had taught her all the right things, the right motions, to make her an excellent spook, and he had taken it a step further and given her a piece of himself as well, hadn't he done? A part of her was always with him, and a part of him was always with her.

She sat up and let the covers slip away as she walked back downstairs, naked and shivering.

END PART THREE


	4. A Rickety Old Table

Four:  
A Rickety Old Table

Ruth held her mug in her hands and smiled. "I'm glad you came, Da," she said softly. "I didn't want you to till I got the place fixed up a little."

Stewart smiled at his little girl and said, "I was just waiting for an invitation, Cat. I know you were dealing with some things. We all do when we get here."

She nodded and murmured, "Ain't that the truth? I feel like I've been through the wringer."

"It can't be as bad as all that," Stewart said gently. "Can it?"

She exhaled and said, "Oh, you want to make a bet, Da? We can start anywhere after you died and just pick up and count off the mistakes I've made on both hands. And then we'll start on the toes and my moles and mum's freckles and – "

"We've all made mistakes," he said. "Even me. But once you're here, you deal with them and face them down and then it's done. It's over. You move on and help others do the same."

She licked her lips and frowned. "Did you used to look in on me?"

He nodded. "All the time."

Her frown deepened. "And… what?"

"And I was immensely proud of my little girl," he said. "No matter what you did, I was always proud of you."

"I suppose you know about Graham, then," she sighed.

Stewart nodded. "He's a good lad."

She smiled a little. "He is, isn't he? He wouldn't have been that way if he'd stayed with me, of course. Harry and me – mostly me – we would've found some way to cock it up and make him miserable and all sorts."

"You don't give yourself enough credit, Cat," Stewart said. "You would've been a wonderful mum."

She shook her head in the negative. "Da, you don't even know the half of it. I was a spook. I was trained in the art of deception and lies and I just – I couldn't look at that face every day and lie about where I was and what I was doing."

"Who you were doing," he corrected mildly.

She covered her face with both hands and said, "Dear god, you really were watching, weren't you?"

He chuckled. "It was part of your job –"

"Not all of it," she whispered. "Not all of it. Some of it was for fun."

"How about that lad Harry, then?"

She smiled and said, "He's a good man, Da. Beneath it all – the spook and the calculated terror. He's really a good man. You would've loved him." It had been a while since she'd thought of him and she missed him dreadfully in the space of a single second. "Is it selfish to say I can't wait till he gets here?"

"Do you think he's going to?" Stewart asked.

Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I know for a fact that he would much rather be with one of his other paramours. It's okay. I have no illusions that what was between us was sex and not much else. We'd never survive a real relationship." She barely looked up as she said, "There's more to life than a good snog and tumble."

"But you want him to come."

"I do," she admitted so quietly that the words might not have left her lips at all. "But it's not fair of me to offer him this, is it? I'm still fixing things up. I'm still… I'm still trying to forgive myself."

"He'll have his own things to deal with, won't he?" Stewart said gently.

Ruth shrugged. "I more than suppose," she agreed. She swallowed hard, then said, "But then again, why would he want to come here and be with me anyway? He only asked me to marry him and I kept turning him down – and it's selfish of me to even think that I want him to be here with me. I don't want him to die. The world would be a much poorer place without Harry Pearce."

"There have been many in the world like that," Stewart said gently. "And they all turn up here in the end. All with their own issues and drama." He reached over and held her hand. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Cat."

"Don't be ridiculous, Da," she said. "It wasn't your fault. Things happen, things we can't control. And then we wind up bloody here." Ruth ran her hands through her hair. "I was stupid, Da. I was. I was so bloody stupid and I jumped between Harry and Sasha just because I love the cheeky bugger." Her face crumpled and she whimpered. "I literally died for bloody love. I died because some chemicals in my head said I had to protect him and I did."

"Are you afraid he doesn't love you that much?"

She shook her head, then hesitated and nodded. "He risked everything to hide me once. But it's not exactly the same thing, is it?"

"Have you looked in on him?"

She shook her head. "Not lately, no."

"You should." Stewart squeezed her hand. "It might set your mind right, Cat m'girl."

"I'll only want him all the more," she said, blinking back tears. "I'll just set myself up for misery."

Stewart said, "Aren't you already miserable?"

As much as she hated to admit it, that was certainly the truth.

END PART FOUR


	5. Muddy Footprints in the Corridor

Five:  
Muddy Footprints in the Corridor

It was another rainy day, but Ruth spent it in the garden, pulling weeds and getting up to her knees in mud. The house was beginning to look much better. The cosmetic details were evening themselves out as she searched her soul and forgave herself one thing at a time. The shutters were back on and painted, the carpets torn out and replaced, the furniture became the things she'd only ever wanted for her and Harry. And, by god, she was going to have flowers in the garden. Even if it killed her – pun absolutely intended.

She was so busy tugging at a huge weed that she didn't hear the garden gate swing open. It wasn't until she heard Harry's voice that she startled, falling over as the roots finally gave way under her assault. She ended up ass over tip in the mud, looking like a right fool.

"Ruth, I –"

She got up and flung herself at him, all mud and flailing limbs and desperate happiness. "Oh my god, what happened to you, Harry? Are you –"

"I think I'm dead, Ruth – I have to be, don't I? To be here with you, I mean." He looked around, confused and something akin to frightened.

She nodded and put her hands on his cheeks, drawing him in for a kiss. "But it's okay," she whispered. "I'm here. I'm here with you, Harry."

"Where is here?"

She kissed him again. "Just shut up," she breathed. "Shut your stupid bloody face and be happy."

"I'm dead and I'm supposed to be happy?"

"Yes," she whispered. "You are. This is heaven, you dipshite."

He just stared at her, then he burst out laughing. "I've missed you –"

She kissed him yet again, so glad to see him that her heart might just burst with joy. "How did it happen?" she asked softly.

He frowned. "Poison," was the simple, succinct answer. "My drink tasted a bit off."

"We're a right pair," she whispered. "Stabbing and poisoning, what shitty ways to go." She said, "Are you all right?"

"You were waiting for me," he said.

She shrugged. "Sort of. Maybe a little."

He held up the small suitcase in his hand and said, "Can we go inside?"

"Yes, of course," she said. It took her a moment, then she said, "Wait a bloody minute – oh my god. I had an entire house full of issues and all you've got is a bloody suitcase?" It didn't seem fair, but he was new and confused and he didn't understand any more than she did.

"I guess I only needed a few things," he said, glancing at the bag.

She giggled a bit and said, "I better run up and take a shower, eh? I look a right fright."

She stepped away and he held her hand, pulling her back. He kissed her and whispered, "You've never been more beautiful to me."

"Come inside, you daft old man," she murmured. "I've been fixing the place up for you. For us."

"It doesn't look like it needs fixing," he said gently. "It's lovely, Ruth."

She pulled him toward the door and said, "Oh, no, Harry, we've got woodworm and a bit of dry rot and cracks and things keep breaking. But it's okay – it's all going to be fine now, isn't it?" They stepped inside, heedless of the mud they were tracking in one footstep at a time. She was practically beaming with bliss, having him here with her. "Let me put the kettle on," Ruth said. "And then I'll run upstairs and clean up."

Harry nodded and said, "All right –"

"It's still a splash of milk and one sugar, right?" she asked. "You haven't gone and changed that on me?"

He pulled up a stool to the counter and said, "No, that's right."

She smiled even more as the rain subsided and the sun began to shine down. "Good – by the way, heaven apparently brews a better pot of tea than I ever did. I kind of hate it," she admitted. "Every cup has been perfect, no matter what I intentionally do to make a farce of it. Same with the cooking. So if you're hungry, there's absolutely no chance of me burning the lamb here." She winked at him, reminding him of more than one night ruined by her absolute flakiness in the kitchen. "Make yourself at home," she said softly, "and I'll be right back."

She dashed upstairs, took a quick shower and changed into something far less muddy – in fact, no mud at all. She changed her knickers and bra as well, throwing on something pretty and uncomfortable, so if he took the rest of her clothes off, he would realize that she'd gone to the effort. Even if it only took five seconds flat for her pants to drop and her bra to go flying across the room. She ran back downstairs, ignoring the muddy footprints in the corridor.

He was still there, sitting at the breakfast bar on his stool, looking like he owned the place. She came around and gave him a kiss on the temple, then went to pour herself a cuppa. His voice was soft and even when he began to speak, regulated within an inch of its life. "I knew I was dying," Harry said. "It hurt in the end when my heart gave out. It hurt a lot. But I knew I couldn't do anything to stop it, and then I was walking up the lane and saw this house and knew you would be here, waiting for me. My hellcat – my Ruth –"

She took a sip of tea and said, "I didn't honestly think you'd come here without some sort of bloody engraved invitation. It's not like we actually made something of ourselves back there. We just kind of kept stumbling – into each other's beds."

He inhaled deeply and said, "I've been madly, hopelessly in love with you since the day we met, Catherine." His use of her real name underscored the point with a flourish. "You came over and helped us move that stupid chair that kept getting stuck in the door. And I couldn't keep my eyes off of you."

She blushed a little, then she said, "Well, someone had to rescue you and Malcolm. You were making a right mess of that recliner. Did you know I was your mark then?"

He nodded. "The moment you came into the corridor," he admitted. "I am sorry that you were hurt so many times before I stepped in –"

She shook her head once, hard. "No, it's not your fault. I should've left the wanker a long time before that, but I was scared of proving everyone else right. And I thought I loved him, Harry. I did." She looked up from her mug, affixing him with a pensive gaze. "But you taught me what love really was. I'm sorry I made such a mess of us, Harry. I am." A few more cracks disappeared through the house and the muddy footprints tracked through on the new carpet disappeared as well. New plants, beautiful plants sprang up in the garden, fresh and green, and the roses began to bloom, perfect blood red petals unfurling under the sunshine.

He reached over and took her hand in his, holding it with a gentle tenderness that felt natural between them. He'd always been gentle with her, even when they were deep in the throes of ecstasy and without control over themselves. He protected her, shielded her, gave her somewhere to hide and flourish. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand in small, intimate circles as it had so many times before, calming her and rousing her at the same moment.

"It wasn't all down to you," he said quietly.

"I know," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "But I carried all of the guilt with me and I never got to tell you how sorry I was. How wrong I was."

He glanced at her sidelong, and looked back down at the table. She knew something was wrong, but she didn't push him, just let him hold her hand and share a perfect cup of tea. Once, she might have longed for so much more, but just his presence was enough to make her content now. She could breathe again, could feel something other than misery.

There was no malice, no anger in his tone when he said, "Why did you never tell me about our son?" Just defeat and a touch of wistful sadness. "Did you think I would hate you for it? Was it my fault, Ruth?"

She closed her eyes and forced back tears, almost choking on them. Of course, that was what was wrong. His male pride was so wounded – and he might never understand that giving Graham up had been the most difficult thing she'd ever done. She had no more guilt to give, just the truth. "No," she whispered. "It was no one's fault, Harry. I was pregnant when you left for Syria – 1991. I was going to tell you, and then you were gone. I hid it from everyone but Malcolm and the winter was cold, so it was easy." She looked straight into his eyes. "By the time you came home, I'd already given birth and given him away. I wanted him to have all of the things we couldn't possibly have given him, Harry. Love, stability, a family that would be there for good. Gillian and Jack took good care of him, I promise –"

"I know," Harry said quietly. "I met him. We started stumbling toward a relationship, I think." There was a long pause, and he whispered, "He asked me about you and I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't bloody stop crying to tell him that you were the most beautiful, caring woman –" Even now, the tears were beginning for him.

Ruth pulled him over and kissed him, gently, then with passion. She pulled away and whispered, "You know when I decided I couldn't tell you about him?"

He shook his head and a single tear wound its way down his cheek, dripping off his chin with indignity. "No," he whispered.

"I wasn't supposed to be on the line when you were at the airstrip in Syria," she said quietly. "But in the chaos, I was doing a lot of things I wasn't meant to do." She rested her forehead against his and just breathed for a moment. The memory was still fresh and sharp. "I heard you give the order to shoot a plane full of civilian children down, Harry." Their minder had been planning on crashing the plane when it reached London, taking god only knows how many people with them. It had been the right call, she knew, had always known, but hearing Harry give the order to bring the plane down by any means necessary had made her throw her headset across the room and run as far away from her desk as she could. Malcolm had been the only one to know why she was so emotional over it – she'd only a few days before given birth and her hormones were running wild and unchecked.

She'd wanted to keep Graham safe. That was all. And he was safer if Harry didn't know about him. He wouldn't be a target, he wouldn't be in danger. It had been a decision made in the heat of a moment and maintained for as long as she could have possibly managed it.

"I'm not arguing the validity of the call," Ruth said. "It was the only one to make. But I knew then that if you knew about him, you'd factor him into everything you did and you'd be emotionally compromised. Better me than you." She pulled away and let him see every emotion running across her face, the honesty of her words, the relief that saying them made her feel. "I'm not sorry for not telling you. I did it for him, Harry."

He gave her a kiss, a crush of his lips against hers, nothing passionate, just… reassuring. "He's a good lad," he said quietly. "You did the right thing, I think."

"I know," she whispered with conviction. She took a deep breath, then said, "We were in a better place, weren't we, in 2001?" He nodded and smiled a little, which made her open up completely. "I was going to tell you on September 11th – that I was pregnant. We had reservations at that place, remember? I can't remember what it was called, but we never went again." Her voice dropped half an octave as she struggled to speak. "I miscarried sometime that week. All the stress, I guess. I was going to tell you – I was. But then it was like chasing rainbows, wasn't it? Chasing rainbows when all around you was hell. And I couldn't figure out how to tell you that I'd gone and lost the baby."

"Is that why you moved out of Malcolm's and on your own after so long?" She knew he had to have noticed the sudden, divisive shift in things between them at that point – and it had nothing to do with Section D. "And I wasn't welcome in your bed?"

She hesitated, then nodded and exhaled. "I thought you'd be able to tell, for sure, and it was so raw, Harry. I broke us and I'll understand if you can't forgive me for something I can't forgive myself for –"

His kiss this time was earnest and raw, full of emotion and everything he couldn't say. But he was going to try. "You have nothing to be forgiven for," he whispered. "I just needed to know why you couldn't open up to me about something so monumental –" His confession came on quiet wings: "I knew about the baby you lost. The hospital sent a note with restrictions across my desk."

"You never said –"

"You were grieving and we were all losing our minds in the new world post-terror," he sighed. "I thought if I gave you space, we'd figure it out eventually."

"We almost did," she breathed, stroking his cheek. "We almost did." She leaned into his arms, balancing precariously on her stool, hoping that he'd be able to hold them both up. The silence that followed was healing, just listening to the sounds of each other.

END PART FIVE


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